


Wake the Sea of Silent Hope

by knune



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Adultery, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All of this stuff may or may not actually happen, Alternate Universe - Human, Drug Addiction, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Gambling, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Maybe Future Mpreg too, Minor Character Death, Odin's A+ Parenting, Past Mpreg, People Like Us AU, Prostitution, Thor loves baseball, Who's on first? Thor doesn't know, keeping secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knune/pseuds/knune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor's father dies and leaves him a shaving kit full of money and a note. The aftermath of this leads to a brother and a nephew he never knew he had. And, of course, Thor just has to go ahead and fall in love with his newly discovered brother. <i>A People Like Us</i> Human AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake the Sea of Silent Hope

**Author's Note:**

> So I never post WIPs but I'm breaking my rule to go ahead and post some of this. This is based on [People Like Us](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1716777/), a Chris Pine movie that was released earlier this year. There's no actual incest in that movie but the vibes were all over it. This fic will involve actual incest between siblings (which is nothing new in this fandom). 
> 
> Title comes from [M4 Part II by Faunts](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwfJvemUIZg), which was the ending track for the first Mass Effect game and still is one of my favorite songs, this many years later. It really has nothing to do with the story.

*

Thor’s father dies and leaves him a shaving kit full of money and a note.

_Thor,_

_Make sure this money gets to Sleipnir Lokison and his father._

_And please, take care of them._

_Odin_

Thor puts his fist through the wall that night and his mother sits with him at the kitchen table, pressing a bag of frozen peas over his hand, watching the minutes tick by on the microwave clock. He doesn’t ask who this Sleipnir is and she doesn’t tell him.

*

The shaving kit isn’t the only thing Odin leaves his son. He also leaves him the keys to a vintage, cherry red, 1964 Cadillac Deville convertible. The same car that’s been sitting in the garage since before Thor was born, the one that was off limits when he finally passed his driving test, the same one that he couldn’t take to prom, couldn’t borrow on the weekend, couldn’t even walk past without getting yelled at.

Thor takes no time at all to grab the keys, throw the shaving kit in the back seat, rev the engine and drive straight into a tree. He only manages to ding the fender, a small dent no larger than his fist in the front right bumper.

He thinks, really thinks about backing up and ramming the tree again, over and over until there’s something bigger than a hardly noticeable dent, until he’s mangled and destroyed his father’s most prized possession, until there’s nothing left but a mess of red and bleeding scrap metal and a rear view mirror. This car, that his father loved more than he ever did his only son, is just another slap in the face and it churns his stomach to even look at it, let alone drive it around.

But he can’t do it, just can’t bring himself to destroy this small piece of his father. He drives home instead (and leaves behind a tree missing a large chunk of bark out of its trunk), parks the car in the garage and covers it with a black and green paint splattered drop cloth. Thor throws the keys in a random direction in the garage and hears the metal ricochet and ping off some boxes, maybe the tool chest and dog crate as well, before finally landing the cement flooring.

He never wants to see this car again, but just before he goes inside, he dives under the drop cloth and grabs the forgotten shaving kit, the one that keeps him up at night and gnaws away at his stomach, the one he’s supposed to give to someone he’s never heard of before. No, he can’t leave this behind.

Thor takes the shaving kit inside, up the stairs to his childhood bedroom, and shoves the bag underneath his bed. Out of sight, never out of mind.

Falling asleep that night is pure hell.

*

Thor wakes up the next morning to his phone blaring Debbie Gibson’s _Shake Your Love_ and he slaps at his phone, trying to hit the ignore button to shut the annoying noise off. He knows it’s Jane, knows that she’s left him six voicemails in the past two days, all with the same varying message:

_Thor, it’s me. I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days. Are you okay? We’re finally at a stopping point with the Einstein-Rosen project so I think I can sneak away for a day or two and come up there. Please at least call so I know you’re okay. I’m worried about you._

She uses different words in each voicemail, different tones of voice (different tones of worry), but they’re all basically the same. And if there’s one thing Thor hates doing, it’s making Jane worry. She’s a brilliant girl, can talk miles and miles around him about things he’s never even heard of, let alone able to wrap his mind around. She’s small and bright, the sun hanging in the midmorning sky, and he doesn’t want to drag her here, to this mess that his father has left behind.

He taps out a quick text to her: _I’m fine. Have a few things left to do here. Will be home soon._

It’s short, sweet, to the point, and bound to make Jane call him another twenty times with that familiar quiver in her voice. And he just can’t stand to listen to it right now. He deletes the other two messages she left while he was sleeping without listening to them.

There’s one last voicemail on his phone, left just after two am, when Thor was in the middle of tossing and turning in a bed he outgrew in the sixth grade. This one doesn’t have a sweet voice begging him to call, but it’s just as familiar. It makes his stomach churn and he knows going back to sleep is going to be impossible.

_Odinson, you’re now two weeks past due on your loan. Mr. Stark is not a patient man. You have until the end of the week to get us the cash or things are going to start to get messy._

Thor deletes the message, locks his phone and shoves it underneath his pillow. He’s not sure what Stark is capable of and he doesn’t want to find out. Unless he comes up with one hundred and fifty grand by the end of the week, Stark is going to make his life (and the lives of everyone he loves) a living hell. Where is he going to get –

He throws the covers off, kicking his _Ninja Turtles_ comforter until it lands on the floor next to his size thirteen sneakers. Thor shifts around, dangles his head over the edge of his bed and spots the shaving kit he threw under there last night.

All night he slept with one hundred and fifty thousand dollars under his head, the very answer to all his problems. He scrambles for the kit, dragging it out with his fingertips, his nails digging into the soft, thick leather.

Sorry, Sleipnir, this money is spoken for.

*

It takes Thor five minutes to throw everything he brought with him into his suitcase. He doesn’t bother to fold his clothes, put his black suit into a garment bag, or pack any of his toiletries. There’s a noon flight leaving out of O’Hare and if he hurries, doesn’t get caught in a flight delay or the long lines at the ticket counter, he could be back in New Mexico, at the doorstep of Stark’s obnoxious, three story vacation home (one of fifteen around the world he’s been told) by dinnertime. 

He’s so close to getting this debt off his back he can taste it. It’s a loan he never should have taken, and certainly never should have bet in a goddamn poker game, but what’s done is done and now he’s close to be debt free, like nothing ever happened and he never spent all those months in Las Vegas, sipping free drinks and making bet after bet after bet.

It was an addiction, maybe not physical, maybe not like drugs or alcohol, but one all the same. One he swears he broke free of when he met Jane, but the debt still lives on and when payday came and went two weeks ago, he had five hundred bucks to his name and his mother crying in his ear about his dead father. The five hundred dollars went toward his airplane ticket and with the two dollars and eleven cents he had left over, he bought a can of Mountain Dew.

Two weeks ago Thor Odinson was a broke and sad case but now there’s hope on the horizon, a saving grace in the forms of a shaving kit and a dead father. He clutches the shaving kit to his chest and drags his suitcase downstairs, the wheels thumping against the wooden staircase with each step, and he finds Frigga sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, her normally blonde and perfect ringlets pushed back off her face haphazardly with her glasses.

“You’re leaving,” she says, not lifting her head. Her voice is soft and it reminds Thor of Jane’s numerous voicemails.

He hovers behind her, in the doorway, itching to just take his suitcase and leave. “There’s a flight to Albuquerque leaving at noon. I should get back to work.”

This time Frigga does lift her head, and there are circles under her eyes, so dark it looks like she’s gotten into a fight and was on the losing end. “What do you do nowadays, Thor?”

“This and that, mom.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. He never went to college, even with a full baseball scholarship, never quite found his niche in the workplace either. Thor has been a telemarketer, a mail clerk for a daily newspaper, a construction worker, a mechanic, and so many other things that he sometimes can’t keep track of them all. “I should get going.”

Thor pulls his suitcase behind him and moves toward the door, he’s almost there, almost free when he feels his mother’s hand on his wrist.

“Thor.” Her touch is cold, freezing, and he wants to take her hands between his and give all his warmth to her. He sometimes forgets that this is a woman who just lost her husband. “I know you and your father never got along very well and that this has been tough for you.”

“It’s fine, mom. I just have to go back. Jane is waiting.”

She ignores him and this is far from the first time. “I know that none of this has been easy and whatever he left you in that shaving kit you’ve been carrying around isn’t helping. It has to be important though, Odin never did anything without a purpose. I hope you take care of it.” Frigga pulls her hand away from his wrist and lays her palm on his cheek instead, her icy touch crawling up his skin and sending a shiver down his spine. “And please, come back to visit me.”

“Sure thing,” Thor promises and if he could have crossed his fingers behind his back he would have. “You can sell the car he left me. I don’t want it.” He takes her hand off his cheek and gives her a quick, brief hug. Her frame is smaller than he remembers, bonier, and if this was any other time, and he didn’t have a debt hanging over his head, he might have started to worry. 

Holding the shaving kit against his abdomen, he pulls his suitcase out of the house, and waits in the driveway for his cab. He feels his mother’s gaze on his back but he never turns around, never goes back inside. He’s leaving his childhood behind and he wishes he felt some kind of regret, but there’s nothing. Thor is empty inside and he’s been like this for most of his life.

*

Thor is standing in line at the United Airlines ticket counter, his fingers playing with the zipper slider on the shaving kit, when his conscience finally ( _finally_ ) kicks in.

There’s a woman in front of him, arguing over the price of a ticket to New York City, and a family behind him, whispering excitedly about their trip to Disney World. And then there’s Thor, sandwiched in between all of this, holding a large sum of money that isn’t even meant for him.

_Odin never did anything without a purpose._

Of course his mother’s words would ring in his ear, eat away at the lining of his stomach until he feels nausea, like throwing up the breakfast he didn’t even bother eating before he left this morning. This Sleipnir, whoever he is, has must need one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for some reason and Thor knows he has to uphold his father’s last wishes or this is going to eat away at him, haunt him for maybe the rest of his life.

Tony Stark isn’t going to get his money, Thor probably isn’t going to live to see Christmas, but at least he’ll be doing the right thing.

Right?

He groans, louder than he means to and the family behind him stops murmuring and the arguing woman turns and gives him a dirty look he can’t ever hope duplicate. Thor mutters a small _sorry_ and leaves the line, the arguing woman’s shrill voice, louder than ever now, following him out the sliding doors of the airport.

It takes him all of two minutes to find a cab, a half an hour to drive the desolate, twisting Chicago suburb back roads, and he’s back at his mother’s house before eleven am. It’s like he never even left at all.

Thor walks in through the kitchen door and finds Frigga sitting at the table (and this is déjà vu from only hours ago). Her hair is still a mess, her eyes are still black as night, but there’s now a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. She pushes it toward the edge of the table and gestures at the empty chair to her right.

“Decided to stay?”

Thor sinks down in the chair, sets the shaving kit down on the yellow and blue checkered table cloth, and curls his hands around the piping hot cup. The pungent smell of Frigga’s famously, incredibly strong coffee hits his nostrils and reminds him that he’s _home_ again.

“I have some unfinished business to attend to before I go.” He takes a sip, burns his tongue and tries not to look at his mother in the eye.

Frigga puts her still ice cold hands on his wrist again and squeezes. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says and she smiles for the first time in what feels like years.

Somewhere in that big, empty chest of Thor’s, he knows he’s made the right decision.

*

There is no one by the name of _Sleipnir Lokison_ in the phone book Frigga uses to prop up the dining room table. So Thor boots up the laptop Jane gave him for his birthday last year, the one he hardly ever uses and doesn’t exactly know how to operate but Jane insisted that he bring with him (to Skype with her, whatever that means), and googles the name instead.

He comes up with a Facebook page, filled with hundreds and hundreds of pictures of a child, no more than twelve years old, with midnight black hair and pale, pale skin. The kid wears nothing but black clothes and in some of the photos his nails are painted every color of the rainbow, but green seems to be his favorite.

This is the infamous Sleipnir and he’s nothing more than a child. The page is locked and Thor can’t access any information besides the pictures and where this young man attends school. There’s nothing about his father, no photos with other people, no nothing. He seems too young to be lonely but Sleipnir reeks of despair and Thor’s never even met him.

Thor prints one of the photos and sticks it into his wallet for safe keeping and further reference. He then bounds into the kitchen, the shaving kit an almost permanent fixture in his hands by now, and nearly runs into Frigga, who is bent over, fussing with the phone book. “Did you take this from the dining room? You know that table isn’t steady and your father never fixed it.”

Thor rubs sheepishly at the back of his neck and takes the book from her. “I’ll fix it before I go, okay?” He hopes it isn’t an empty promise but his track record is poor and he can see it in his mother’s eyes that she doesn’t believe him, even though she nods her head and pats him on the shoulder.

“Just put it back, please.”

“Of course.” He sets it aside on the table and keeps his eye on his mother, on the way she moves throughout the kitchen, puts the kettle on for a cup of team, and none of it is as fluid as it used to be. “Can I borrow your car? I have a few things to do.”

“What for? Your father left you the Cadillac.” Frigga strikes a match to ignite the gas stove and gasps when the burner lights up. She always gasps, like it’s a miracle or a surprise or she’s truly worried that the stove is going to explode one of these days. “Use that.”

“I’d rather not. Please, just let me borrow your car.” Thor hugs the shaving kit to his stomach and he feels his pulse racing, the blood speeding through his veins. He doesn’t want to even look at that car, let alone drive it around. He can’t drive it and not think of the gap that widened and widened until there was an ocean between father and son.

“I’m sorry. I have some errands to run. You’ll have to take the Cadillac.” She gives him a soft smile and nods toward the garage. “Go easy on it, I think there’s a dent in the fender that wasn’t there a while ago.”

Thor grunts and goes to fish the keys out of the garage from wherever the hell he threw them. He purposely leaves the phone book on the kitchen table. It’s the small acts of rebellion that count when you’re thirty.

It takes Thor a good half an hour to find the keys to the Cadillac. He has to move a pile of boxes, climb over a large dog crate and move his father’s hardly ever used tool bench and still doesn’t find them. He eventually finds them inside one of the boxes, amongst some of his baseball trophies from little league and the stuffed _Figment_ dragon he carried everywhere when he was still in pampers.

It’s honestly the sentimentality that makes him take _Figment_ as well the car keys. He throws the dragon in the back seat along with the shaving kit and speeds like a bat out of hell toward Sleipnir’s school before the last class ends. 

*

Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters (Chicago campus) is only attended by the best and the brightest, or so Thor has heard. School wasn’t anything Thor paid much attention to and he went to whatever public school that would take him. He focused on baseball, baseball, baseball, not academics. To this day, he’s still not sure what the Pythagorean Theorem is.

He sits outside of the school in the car park, slumped down in his seat and watches as the students filter out of the building after the final bell rings. This isn’t stalking, not really. It looks like stalking, feels like stalking, but really, it’s just watching from afar. A cop probably wouldn’t agree but it’s really innocent.

He looks at the printed picture of Sleipnir for reference and waits until he sees the pale little boy run down the front stairs, in what is apparently his typical attire of head to toe black. He adjusts his backpack and looks like he grimaces (but it’s so hard to tell from this far away), leading Thor to believe that not only is Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters for smart kids but also for kids who want to break their back doing nothing but homework for fun. It makes Thor’s skin crawl just thinking about it.

Thor watches Sleipnir as he stands on the sidewalk, checking his watch every couple of minutes. He must be waiting for someone, a ride, maybe his mysterious father. But time keeps ticking and more children filter out of the school until there’s no one left and even the teachers are leaving for the day.

After two hours and no sign of a ride home, Sleipnir kicks the curb and begins to walk. Thor jumps out of his car, remembering to grab the precious shaving kit at the last moment, and tails the kid, which is harder than it looks. At times Sleipnir looks back, his eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, and Thor has to dive remain hidden.

Eventually he follows the kid to one of those big box sporting goods stores. This is a place Thor spent too many hours in as a teenager when he should have had his nose stuck in a book. At this Sleipnir has good taste as far as hang outs go.

He follows him to the baseball aisle, where the educational batting DVDs are kept, and he rounds the corner of the aisle just in time to see Sleipnir sticking a DVD down his pants. 

“Seriously?” Thor shakes his head and approaches the child, who looks younger in person than in his Facebook profile. He’s ten, maybe eleven, but still old enough to know not to steal. “Put that back before you get caught.”

Sleipnir frowns but puts the DVD back on the shelf. He fidgets with the bottom of his shirt but manages to still act like a typical rebellious punk. “Who are you? Security? I wasn’t doing anything.”

Thor rolls his eyes because he wasn’t born yesterday. “No? You didn’t just stick something down your pants?”

“Look, arrest me or leave me alone. I just wanted to watch the DVD.”

“That one is shit anyway. I mean, crap.” Thor clears his throat and tries to again, because keeping PG has never been a specialty of his. “That isn’t the best one. You really want this one by Cal Ripken. It’s pretty good for footwork tips.” He picks a DVD up from the shelf and then gives the kid a twenty (given to Thor generously from his mother a few days ago) to cover the cost. “Buy it like a good samaritan.”

“Who are you? What do you want? I’m not going to suck your cock for a baseball DVD.” Sleipnir snatches the money and shoves it into his pocket, like it’s going to be taken away from him if he doesn’t put it away right this second.

Wow, the mouth on this kid. Thor hasn’t heard anyone under the age of twenty speak like that, maybe ever. Odin would have tanned his ass six ways from Sunday if he ever spoke like that when he was ten and Thor carries the battle scars to prove it. “No! I just don’t want you to steal anything. You’re young, there’s no point in messing up your life this early.”

Sleipnir clutches the DVD tightly between his fingers and backs away slowly. “Well, thanks. I’ve got to go. My father is probably waiting for me at home.”

“You want a ride?”

“You promise you won’t take advantage of me? My father always says not to accept rides from strangers. And not to take candy from them either. And not to talk to them in general. He worries a lot.” Sleipnir’s small, green eyes are narrowed and darting around the aisle. Maybe he’s looking for routes of escape, just in case.

Thor laughs, big and loud, the only way he really knows how. “Listen, kid, I’m thirty. I don’t need to prey on kids for sexual favors. I’m just offering you a ride home. I’m sure you could use it.”

“If you touch me, I’m going to cut your dick off. I’ve got a knife.” Sleipnir pats his pocket and Thor doubts there’s anything in there but the twenty dollar bill he gave him moments ago but he raises his hands in a defensive mode and nods.

“You have my word.”

*

Sleipnir refuses to answer any of Thor’s questions on the short ride to his apartment complex. It’s like his lips are glued shut and he keeps his eyes either on the road or on his new baseball DVD.

“So what position do you play?” Thor is trying, God help him, he’s really trying here.

Sleipnir says nothing, just looks at the back of his DVD and he must have read the cover at least fifteen times over by now. He tears the plastic wrapper off and throws it over the side of the car at a red light. Thor has to get out of the car to pick it up because he really doesn’t want a two hundred dollar fine from the cop on the opposite side of the road.

“I was first base when I played. I was too slow for the other positions but I was able to stop the ball in the gap in no time flat. I got a scholarship to play in college but didn’t go.” Thor is really only talking to himself right now and when he thinks about his days on the diamond and compares them to his life now, he feels like a huge failure.

Sleipnir is still silent and begins twisting around in his seat. Thor is apparently boring him so much he needs to focus his attention some other place. “What’s with the dragon?” he finally asks.

“Oh, that was mine as a kid. Found it today in the garage.”

“It’s…cute.” Sleipnir shrugs and then grabs ahold of the shaving kit and hauls it into the front seat. “What’s in here? You have a beard. I doubt you shave a lot.”

Thor snags the bag out of the kid’s hands and shoves it under his seat, lodges it in there so hard he’s going to have a hard time getting it out of there later on. “It’s something my dad gave me. He just passed away.”

Setting down in his seat, Sleipnir frowns and mutters an “I’m sorry” out. And that’s it, the end of the conversation. Thor doesn’t feel like asking questions that won’t get any answers after that and Sleipnir keeps his mouth shut tight.

They finally arrive to Sleipnir’s apartment complex, a hideous bright pink and green rundown building that looks like it was some kind of hotel before it was converted to apartments. They don’t have these kinds of buildings in New Mexico but he thinks this is what public housing is.

“Thanks for the lift.” Sleipnir jumps out of the car and stands on the sidewalk for a second, the DVD still clutched tightly in his hands. “Uh, see ya.”

Thor nods. “Take care.” He watches Sleipnir disappear into the complex, climb up a set of stairs and finally go into apartment 221. There’s no sign of the father anywhere, not at the door when Sleipnir opens it, not through the open curtains that give far too much of a view into the apartment.

He goes home, reconnaissance done for the day, and feels some kind of sense of accomplishment. He even listens to all four of Jane’s voicemails but still deletes them all without replying. That’s a bridge he just doesn’t feel like crossing right now.

There’s another voicemail from one of Stark’s goonies, the one he remembers as Happy Hogan, as well. He huddles under his covers and tries not to think of all the ways they plan to break him once he gets back to New Mexico. It’s another sleepless night.

*


	2. Following the Neon Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thor and Loki finally meet and more sleepless nights ensue.

*

It takes Thor days to finally catch a glimpse of Sleipnir’s father. He stakes out the apartment complex, day in and day out, huddling in the driver’s seat of the Cadillac, chugging coffee and rubbing his hands together to keep the early morning frost from forming on his fingertips and eating away at his skin until it’s blue, unnatural and monstrous. He sits there from crack of dawn until well past what he considers his bedtime and not once does he see anyone entering or exiting the apartment besides the child.

There is a woman who visits from time to time, short with thick black hair that cascades down her shoulders and apparently wears nothing but black t-shirts with crude four letter words stitched across her chest. She always knocks twice, waits for Sleipnir to open the door and then they hold a conversation, less than three minutes in length, and that is that. She’s never invited in and Sleipnir never leaves with her.

There’s no sign of the father at all. This guy is some kind of absentee dad, which is all too familiar and makes Thor’s stomach churn in the worst way, or a ninja who slips in and out while Thor is taking one of many cat naps in the back seat of the convertible.

On the third day, there’s finally a break in the case (which is ridiculous because this isn’t a case and Thor is no Sherlock Holmes). Sometime around six am, when Thor is sipping on his venti black coffee from Starbucks and still trying to rub the crust out of his eyes, the door of the apartment opens and a man slips out.

This must be the elusive father and he’s the splitting image of his son. Black, slicked back hair, pale skin and Thor can’t see from where he is but he would bet anything that this man has the same deep, penetrating green eyes that his son has. They could twins, instead of father and son, brothers, and there’s no denying that they’re related.

The man slinks, _slinks_ down the stairs and there’s no other way to describe it. He moves quickly, stealthily, like water trickling through tightly clenched fingers and Thor has to scramble to get out of the car and follow him. In his haste, Thor only narrowly avoids dropping his piping hot coffee on his lap.

He follows the man for four blocks, at a relatively good pace. He must be getting better at this because this guy never even looks back, not once. They finally arrive at a church, big and gothic, just the sort of place Thor wouldn’t have pegged this guy to go but when he thinks about it, it sort of makes sense. Dark hair, dark clothes, pale skin, gothic church – it fits.

It’s a grand building though, gray and white with small crosses on the tips of the spires, and bright and vibrant stained glass adorning the windows. Thor has lived in Chicago for most of his life and he’s never see anything this striking before. Not even Wrigley Field compares.

The man slips inside the building while Thor is craning his neck at the architecture and when he finally snaps his attention to the front door, he has to scurry again to find his target. 

The inside of the church is just as impressive as the outside, if not more so with its long aisles and dark stained pews. It’s not silent the way a church should be, in fact it’s ridiculously loud, with at least twenty people all talking at once. The sound bounces around the old stone brickwork and the voices vibrate uncomfortably in his ears.

The pews are abandoned and in a small corner of the church, a circle of chairs has been set up. It takes Thor a second, and then practically running into a large sign, to figure out what this is. A meeting. An addiction meeting. He’s been plenty of them back in New Mexico, when he was trying to get his gambling under control. He stopped attending after four meetings.

Sleipnir’s mysterious father has taken a seat toward the front of the room and Thor takes the opportunity to slip unnoticed into a back row seat. He keeps his head down, slumps in his chair, and he wishes he had worn a baseball cap today. But Thor knows that no matter what he does, he sticks out like a sore thumb. A six foot four man with blonde hair and a blonde beard is hardly an incognito look. It’s a miracle he managed to stake out the apartment complex for days without getting the cops called on him (and really he thinks maybe a stakeout isn’t so unusual in that neighborhood in the first place).

The meeting is eventually called to order by a rather short looking man in a black suit. He looks like some kind of agent, FBI or CIA, and there’s no imagination in his crisp black suit, white collared shirt and black Oxfords. The man introduces himself as “Phil” and says a few words but honestly Thor isn’t listening.

No, he’s staring at the back of his target’s head. He has no idea what this guy’s name is but he already knows so much about him – where he lives, who his son is, that he attends addiction meetings. What Thor doesn’t know is why this family was left one hundred and fifty thousand dollars of his father’s money. None of it lines up and this is a puzzle he just doesn’t have all the pieces to.

But everything starts to fall together the second Phil abandons the podium and Sleipnir’s father gets out of his chair. The puzzle pieces start to align, fall into place and the picture is forming slowly before his eyes.

“I will attempt to keep this brief but I feel I must say my piece this morning,” the man starts out, pulling a newspaper article from somewhere inside his jacket. “I found this last night. It’s a couple of weeks old but…” He flips through it and then yanks a page out from the back of the paper and holds it up to read from. “ _Odin Borson, 55, passed away Tuesday morning from a sudden heart attack. Borson, the CEO of Asgard Construction, is survived by his wife and son._ ”

Thor sits up a little straighter, leans forward, not wanting to miss a word of this. Why is he speaking of Thor’s father? What right does he have to bring this up in this sort of setting?

“Son. Not sons. My father is dead and I had to find out about it in a goddamn newspaper I found.” His expression is impossible to read but his eyes are smoldering and his hands are visibly shaking, the paper rustling between his fingertips as he slams it down onto the podium.  “The only thing I have of him is his last name - Odinson. What a joke. I am no son of his. I am a secret, a mistake.”

There’s more that spills out of this stranger’s mouth, a full scale rant, and he spews hate and filth from his thin lips, but Thor hears nothing except white noise. The puzzle is complete, all the pieces are in place and this is the answer he’s been searching for since he opened that shaving kit.

This man – this tall, pale, green-eyed man who doesn’t resemble Thor in the slightest – is his brother. His _brother_. Sleipnir is his _nephew_. It’s surreal, it’s sickening and it makes his heart drop into his stomach. His father lead another life, one Thor knew nothing about and this, this man in front of him, is the result.

“The anger I have toward him is immense and I crave a drink, a needle, something to shoot up to forget all of this. I suppose I will find the strength to resist.” This man – Thor’s brother – seems to have lost some of his fight now. His shoulders are slumped, hair disheveled and out of its once perfectly gelled place, and he nods his head. “I am finished. Thank you for listening.” He returns to his seat, shoving the newspaper back into his coat again.

“Thank you for sharing, Loki. I’m sorry for your loss,” Phil says and finally, Thor has a name to put with this face.

 _Loki_ , his brother’s name is _Loki_.

It’s overwhelming and Thor’s head is spinning, or maybe the room is. It’s getting hard to breathe in this tight circle, surrounded by all of these people, and Thor pulls hard at his flannel shirt, trying to get more air. He gets up, stumbling out of his chair and leaves. He meant to be quiet, to exit unnoticed, but he’s never been silent on his feet. The door slams behind him as he steps outside and he knows he was anything except unobtrusive but at least he can breathe again.

Thor sits on the steps and waits for the white noise to disappear from his ears, for his lungs to accept the flow of fresh air filtering in through his nostrils. It takes some time, more than a few moments of just sitting and digesting everything that has been thrown at him the past few days but eventually he feels somewhat like himself. Just in time for the meeting to let out too.

Loki is the first one out but he lingers in the parking lot, his slender fingers pulling a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his too tight black jeans. He taps the cigarette against the carton and then produces a lighter from the very same pocket. For pants so tight it’s a miracle he’s able to get anything in those pockets, let alone multiple items.

Thor clears his throat loudly and this gets Loki’s attention. “Can I trouble you for a smoke?” He doesn’t even smoke but this is his opportunity, maybe his only opportunity, to speak with his brother.

Loki eyes him for a minute, sizing him up, forming a split second decision on whether this person is worthy of one of his cigarettes, and then extends the package towards Thor. He waits a moment and then lights it. 

“I am sorry to hear about your father,” Thor says, holding the burning cigarette clumsily between his fingers.

“I hardly knew him. I’m not sure why his death has affected me like this.” Loki pockets his items, and shifts a bit on his feet, like he’s got an itch somewhere he just can’t scratch. It’s that pull of addiction and Thor knows far too much about that deep ache that only time can settle. “But thank you.”

“I recently lost my father as well. I know it can be difficult.” Thor finally brings the cigarette to his mouth and inhales. His throat spasms, his lungs protest, and he coughs so hard he starts to see white spots. He knows his face must be flush with embarrassment but Loki simply smirks. “This is a habit I quit some time ago.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you will pick it back up again easily.” Loki breathes out a ring of smoke and looks down upon Thor. “I must be going now.” He snubs his cigarette out on the stoop and then tucks it behind his ear.

Thor gets to his feet, shoving his free hand into his pocket. The morning is beginning to warm, the sun climbing higher and higher into the clear blue sky with every breathing moment, but his fingertips still ache from hours and days spent out in the cold air. “Of course. You must want to get back to your family.”

Loki whips his head around and his eyes are as wild unreadable as they were when he read the newspaper article. “Excuse me?”

“It’s Saturday. I’m sure you want to go and spend time with your family.” Thor shrugs and taps the end of his cigarette, knocking the ash off the tip.

“I actually have to get to work. The world doesn’t stop just because it’s Saturday. Sometimes family has to wait.” With that Loki nods his head and walks away, never once stopping to look back. And why should he? Thor is no one to look back upon.

Thor stands there for a few moments, Loki’s final words ringing in his ears, so harsh and yet so familiar. He’s heard those words before – from the one man who never had time for family, never made time to see a baseball game, a talent show, a spelling bee.  Time and time again.

He has absolutely no doubt this man is his brother and that Loki inherited the absolute worst parts of their father. 

*

Thor slams the shaving kit down on the kitchen table and Frigga’s head snaps up, the tea cupped in her hands spilling over the edge and drenching her fingers in steaming, brown liquid.

“Oh, Thor.” She grabs a nearby napkin and begins to blot at the ugly picnic tablecloth that has been on this table for as long as Thor can remember. It’s probably older than even he is and he thinks that this house, this family, is stuck in time and nothing ever moves, progresses. “You forgot to put the phone book away.”

He ignores her and tears the napkin out of her shaking fingers. “Did you know?” He doesn’t ask, doesn’t bother keeping his voice level and even. He demands, takes, wants answers to every question he’s ever asked and was told he couldn’t have.

Frigga is not looking at him. She’s pointedly staring down at the spilled tea, the puddle of liquid pooling around her cup and fingertips. “Know what, dear?”

“Loki. Did you know about him? About his son?” The anger is vibrating through him, making his head swim, and he has to clench his fists by his side to ward off some of this misplaced energy. His mother doesn’t deserve his anger but he has nowhere else to go, no father to take it out on.

Now Frigga sharply turns her head up toward her son, her eyes darker than he’s ever seen them. There’s a storm brewing in her pupils and he knows he’s wrong to push about this, so soon after his father’s death. It’s like pouring salt into an open wound and Frigga can finally feel the burn. “Of course I knew. Do you think I’m a fool? That I’m blind? I know what goes on under my own roof!”

Some of the wind blows out of Thor’s sails and he sinks down into a chair, rests his head in his hands. He isn’t even sure what to say at this point. There’s been a secret lingering between the walls of this house since he was an infant. It’s a secret almost as old as this tablecloth and he’s spent his entire life in the dark about it.

“Your father, he would come home, smelling like…” Frigga shakes her head and rubs at her face. Her fingers are still wet from the tea and she smears her make-up, leaving wet marks in the foundation. It looks all too much like tear tracks. “The details don’t matter. When I found out about it, he made a choice.”

“And he chose us?”

“Of course he chose us. Your father had an obligation to his wife and his child. He stopped seeing…her.” She gathers her cup and goes to the sink, her back rigid and stiff. She begins to wash her cup, the sound of running water filling the room.

“But he stopped seeing Loki as well. You forced him to grow up without a father!”

Frigga slaps at the faucet and rush of water stops suddenly. “It was them or us. He chose us.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel and turns toward Thor, her face closed off now, lips drawn tightly together. Thor knows this conversation is over. “Now please, put the phone book back where you found it.”

Thor nods sharply and grabs the book, almost fleeing from the kitchen, from this conversation. He shoves the phone book back into its home underneath the dining room table and then disappears upstairs, to his childhood bedroom. He spends more time hiding up here than doing anything else but he’s had enough excitement for the day. He’s had enough for an entire lifetime.

He aches to go back to New Mexico for the first time since he left. He’d almost rather face Tony Stark and his goons than stay here a moment longer. Almost.

*

Debbie Gibson wakes Thor up sometime in the middle of the night. He squints at his bedside clock and barely makes out the numbers. It’s after three, that’s all he can see without his contacts in.

Jane never calls in the middle of the night, never even stays up past eleven. Something must be wrong. His heart starts to pound uncontrollably and he fumbles with his phone, desperately trying to press the green _accept_ button.

“Jane? Jane?” He’s starting to sweat and he kicks at his covers, twists and tangles himself in them until he ends up falling onto the floor with a hideously loud crash.

“Thor?” Jane’s tinny voice rings through the speaker and Thor sits up, rubbing at his scapula with his free hand.  

He’s relieved to hear her voice though and the pain searing through his shoulder and hip can wait. It becomes a dull sting in the back of his mind and nothing more. “Are you okay? What’s going on?” He thought he had more time. Stark’s thug, Hogan, gave him until the end of the week. He hasn’t burned all his days yet. He’ll come up empty, in the end, but there’s supposed to still be time left. Not much, but something left until they start ripping his life into shreds.

“I’m fine. I just couldn’t sleep. You sound awful. Are you okay?”

Thor grunts and he tries to stop the incredible wave of rage washing over him. It’s a familiar feeling now, the burn of anger deep in his belly, trying to claw its way up and out of his esophagus. He thought she was in trouble, that Stark had his filthy paws on her and was taking his payment in pounds of flesh instead of in cash. And it turns out Jane just couldn’t count enough sheep to fall asleep. It makes him want to put his fist through the wall again.

He swallows hard and waits a second before answering. He can’t let this anger run wild. He’ll end up having a heart attack or something equally distressing and he just doesn’t need the added stress. His mother doesn’t need it either. “I’m fine,” he grinds out through gritted teeth. “I was asleep. Do you need something?”

“I haven’t talked to you in weeks, Thor. I want to know when you’re coming home. Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine. I told you I have some more things to do here and then I’ll be back. Please, try to go to sleep.” He climbs back into his bed, biting on his tongue to keep a groan from escaping his lips. He’s going to feel his fall tomorrow and there will be bruises from hitting the hard, wooden floor. These are battle scars of the worst kind.

Jane sighs, softly but it still rings loudly in Thor’s ear. “I’m starting to worry that you’re never going to come back. Listen, I’m going to come up there. I’m sorry my work has kept me from joining you but I’m going to call Erik and tell him I’m needed elsewhere.”

Weeks after his father’s death, Jane is suddenly needed elsewhere. It’s funny how these things work out, and _this_ is finally the moment when Thor is important enough to put the research aside. His blood is boiling, simmering beneath the surface, and he isn’t sure how much longer he can keep it from bubbling over. “No. Don’t bother. This is family business, Jane.”

“I’m not family?”

He has no answer for this. A few weeks ago, he would have said _yes, of course you are_ but now he’s not so sure. He feels like he’s had a blindfold on for most of this relationship and he’s just ripped it off and seen the light for the first time. Maybe his definition of _family_ is just changing, rapidly and dramatically, and he has no real idea what it even means anymore or who it refers to. “I’m tired and I’m going back to sleep. Please, stay home and finish your work. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“All right, Thor. Okay.” Her voice sounds closed off, tight, and he knows she’s struggling not to cry. And he just can’t bring himself to care at the moment.

“Goodnight, Jane.” He hangs up before she can say anything else. It might be a little cruel, a little mean, especially to this woman he’s been dating for over three years but he’s not sure he really cares anymore. He’s not sure if he ever really cared or has been worth caring about in return.

Thor lays awake, just as he has almost every night since landing in this windy city, with his shoulder aching and his hip complaining. He listens to the floor boards sneak beneath his bed and he knows Frigga is haunting the bottom floor, pacing back and forth. Perhaps sleepless nights run in the family.

*


	3. Your Values Are All Shot

*

It’s six in the morning and Thor is having a staring contest with a shaving kit.

And he’s losing.

The kit, with its wrinkled leather face and rusted zipper teeth, sits there on his bed - unmoving, unblinking, unwilling to convince him to make a move one way or the other. It doesn’t blink first and after too many long moments, Thor is forced to shut his now dried out and stinging eyes.

Reaching out, Thor fingers the cracked old leather and then pushes at it until the kit slides off his mattress and lands face down on the floor, its rotting teeth kissing the hardwood flooring. With a sweep of his bare foot, the shaving kit slides underneath the bed frame.  

He leaves it there, under the bed where it’ll live amongst dust bunnies and cockroach carcasses until he figures out what to do with it, how to give it away. Thor just can’t look at it anymore, can’t stand to feel its heavy weight beneath his fingers. The heavy weight that transfers itself from his palms to his shoulders with ease. He’ll carry it with him, regardless of whether it’s in the backseat of his car, in his hands, or under his bed. It’s always there, eating away at the back of his mind and one of these days his brain will fall out of the red and bloody hole it’s leaving in its wake.

The day is beginning to peak over the horizon, climbing up through his windows, and he knows it’s time to get up, wipe the sleep he didn’t get out of his eyes. After all, today is the day Thor is going to get to know his brother. 

*

It’s not that hard to find out where Loki works. Even Thor, with his limited computer skills, is able to google information like it’s nobody’s business. A quick search for _Loki Odinson_ comes up with a website for _Jotunheim_ , a bar situated on the rooftop deck of a downtown hotel.

Loki, Thor’s only brother (or so he thinks but who knows at this point), is a bartender. A recovering addict spends his nights tending bar. It’s irony at its best and even Thor, who is known to miss the point ninety percent of the time, can appreciate it.

He has to wait though; wait until the sun has yawned into the good night and the moon has clawed its way into the endless black of the sky. And time is not kind to Thor, never has been. The seconds feel like hours, the hours feel like days, and there’s nothing to break the monotony up.   

Thor spends his morning watching Frigga from the corner of his eye while pretending to read the newspaper. She flits about the kitchen, a nervous ball of energy, and she’s never still. Even when she sits beside him, she taps her fingers against her mug, wipes at invisible crumbs on the tablecloth. It fires his nerves in all the wrong places to even watch this restlessness. 

Frigga is creasing, uncreasing, creasing a napkin over and over when Thor’s hand shoots out and catches her fingers. “Mother, is something wrong?”

Hands finally still, she raises her eyes to meet his, and the bruises beneath are darker than ever. He thinks they make a fine pair; a mother and son who never sleep, stay up all night and let the insomnia grate away at them until they’re nothing but sleep deprived flesh and bone.

She doesn’t say anything but then again, she doesn’t have to. _Is something wrong_ , he asked. Of course there’s something wrong. Her husband is dead, his darkest secrets left behind to haunt her, and her days are empty and unfocused. Everything is wrong.

Thor squeezes her hand gently, his large palms engulfing her small and dainty fingers. “Let’s spend the day in the garden. I think there are some weeds that need to be pulled.” It’s a distraction, nothing more, and the best he can do without money, a time machine or the power to resurrect the dead.

“Alright,” Frigga finally says, her fingers tightening around his. Her eyes brighten, just a bit, and Thor thinks maybe he’s finally said the right thing at the right time. It was bound to happen someday.

They spend the day amongst the flowers and the dirt in the backyard.  Time still crawls by but Thor’s hands are caked with soil and his mother has some color to her cheeks, some purpose for a few hours. By the time the sun sets, there’s dirt beneath his nails, smudged across his cheek, and a cold glass of lemonade in his hands. Not a terrible way to spend a few hours, not at all.

He waits until Frigga disappears into her bedroom before showering and slipping off to the bar. It’s easier to not explain where he’s going, easier to keep her mind free of things she doesn’t need or want to think about.

Slipping away quietly, he eases the front door shut and Thor feels like he’s fifteen again and he’s sneaking out to meet some girl at the edge of town. He has that same brisk beat to his heart, the same ruddy coloring his cheeks, but there’s no blowjob waiting blocks away. There’s just a brother and a bar and this isn’t the same thing at all.

No, Thor isn’t fifteen and Odin isn’t waiting up to ground him, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like a child. But then again, he never really grew up in the first place.

*

The rooftop bar is sleek and shiny – all bright, crystalline blue lighting surrounded by a sea of white, oddly shaped furniture and thin, slate gray metal bar stools. The flooring is cement, the bar some kind of polished sheet metal and the music blasting through the speakers is somber, depressing, and Thor can’t stop the constant shiver running up his spine. _Jotunheim_ is sterile, almost clinical in a sense, and there is no warmth to find here.

This bar is for the movers and shakers of the world, for those people who have clients and meetings, who have places to go and people to see. This is a suit and tie bar, a wear your finest and order the most expensive whiskey. Thor, with his worn out t-shirt and faded blue jeans, sticks out like a sore thumb.

Luckily, the crowd seems to be thinning out and by the time Thor leans against the bar, his forearm leaving a smudge behind in the glossy veneer, there’s not another soul vying for the bartender’s attention. He lifts his hand and flags down the very familiar bartender.

Loki, his skin paler than ever in the shimmering moonlight, lifts an eyebrow in Thor’s direction. He’s dressed in a white shirt, a simple pair of black pants, and even though he fits the bill of the clientele, he looks just as out of place as Thor does. “You’d like a drink?”

“No, thank you. Do you remember me? From the other day?”

“Should I remember you?” Loki wipes down the bar with a white cloth and his fingers almost blend right in with it.

Thor slouches into a stool and manages to keep his face from falling. He’s never considered himself to be fairly memorable but it stings just a little when someone confirms the fact. “I was at the AA meeting you attended. You gave me a cigarette in the parking lot.”

Loki’s eyes narrow just a bit and his thin lips press tightly together. There’s still no recognition in his eyes but there seems to be fire there all the same. “Are you stalking me? Why are you here?”

_Yes_ , the answer is _yes_ and yet there’s no way Thor can honestly answer these questions. He’s a terrible liar but he’s been practicing weaving these webs as of late. Maybe Loki won’t see right through them. “Of course not. I had some business here and just stopped in for a drink. I had no idea this was your place of employment.”

“You had a meeting here dressed like that?”

Thor laughs, maybe a bit too high and a bit too tight, but he plays it off with a casual elegance that surprises even himself. “I’m in construction. This is how I dress.” The best lies are always the ones closest to the truth, he’s been told, and this is close enough.

“Yes, well, I can’t say I’m surprised to hear that construction is your chosen profession.” Loki tosses the rag somewhere beneath the bar and cleans an empty glass that is suddenly thrust at him from some drunk patron. “Is there something you want?”

“I saw you and thought I’d say hello.” Thor shrugs because this is the best he has right now. He’s never been much of a planner and naturally he made no plan about what to say to his brother, how to approach the elephant that’s hiding beneath his bed.

Loki nods and his green eyes are as penetrating as ever. Those eyes could tell stories, Thor can tell, but he just can’t read them yet. “Well, you’ve said hello. If there is nothing else, the bar is for paying customers only.”

Ouch. The sting in his chest is growing but Thor is not about to be knocked down this quickly. “Then I’d like a beer. Whatever is on tap is fine.” He throws a ten dollar bill down on the bar (another gift from his mother).

“Last call was fifteen minutes ago.” Loki palms the ten dollars and shoves it into his pocket. He serves Thor up an expensive glass of coke instead.

Thor wraps his hands around the glass, his fingers dwarfing the beverage and there are only pinpoints of brown shining out from beneath his skin. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Loki laughs and it’s a beautiful thing, it really is. The tension he carries in his face disappears for just a moment and there’s something besides fire lighting up his eyes. “You want to buy an alcoholic a drink? After last call?”

“A sandwich then. A plate of pancakes?” Thor runs his fingers down the condensation on his glass. “I know of a classy establishment on the other side of town. It’s called IHOP.”

“I have another job to get to but thank you for the offer.” The bar is clean but Loki starts to wipe it down again with the rag from earlier. Maybe he needs something to do with his hands, just like Thor does. Maybe he needs the distraction to find the strength to say _no_.

“It cannot be healthy to work as much as you do. You should have some pancakes.”

Loki stops wiping the bar, his hand stilling mid-rub. “Is that so?” He looks Thor up and down just as he did in the parking lot of the church. It’s difficult to be sized up twice in as many days but Thor sits still and tries not to slump over his coke. “Very well. I can afford to spare a few minutes for a meal.”

Thor can’t help the grin spreading out over his lips. He’s finally getting somewhere here. Perhaps pancakes are the great icebreaker he’s been hoping for.

*

The conversation at IHOP is a bit stilted, awkward, and Thor shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Each and every attempt he makes at a conversation starter gets shot down with either a one word answer or a roll of his eyes. Loki seems to have no interest in Thor or in his meal. He pushes his eggs around his plate and sips his water every now and again.

This is worse than a root canal and Thor would almost rather have all of his teeth pulled without anesthesia than sit here a moment longer.

“Why did you agree to eat with me?” Thor eventually asks, twisting his napkin between his fingers (and he doesn’t know when he picked this habit up from Frigga).

Loki sets his fork down beside his plate and pushes his chair back, as if he’s ready to get up and leave. It certainly wouldn’t shock Thor if he did. “Why did you ask me to eat with you? You were very adamant about it.”

“I wanted to get to know you. You seem interesting.” And that’s the truth, one of the few realities that have crossed Thor’s lips tonight.

“I have to admit, it’s not often I am asked out. I thought, well…I apologize for thinking you had ulterior motives.”

“Ulterior motives? Like what?” Thor shakes his head and tries to keep his fork steady between his fingers. Loki is perceptive and Thor’s web of lies is too thin to hold up. This whole thing is going to get shot to hell before it even gets off the ground.

“I’m sure you can think of a plethora of them without me having to tell you.” Loki pulls his chair back to the table and seems to let his guard down, at least a little. His shoulders relax but there’s something in his tone that clearly says this has happened to him before, that he’s been taken advantage of time and time again, that he doesn’t trust easily at all. It’s a sad and lonely tone that works its way up to his eyes and settles there like a lead brick. The same lead brick seems to settle in Thor’s stomach as well. “I do have to get to work soon.”

“What is this second job you have?”

Loki returns to pushing his eggs around his plate. “Customer service.” His eyes are everywhere but on Thor. “So you’re in construction?”

It’s not any easier now than it was when they first sat down. Loki carefully redirects every question Thor asks and it forces him to weave more and more lies. At least there’s conversation now and every once in a great while Loki will let something significant slip. _I have a son_ , he says at one point. _He’s named after a horse I had as a child_ , he says at another. And this is really more than Thor could have ever hoped for.

They sit there for what feels like hours and when the sun begins to peak through the restaurant windows, Loki looks at his watch and sighs. “Shit. I really must be going now.”

“Of course.” Thor stands as Loki gathers his belongings, which is nothing more than a worn out and trashy looking coat and a rather old cell phone (Thor can’t remember the last time he saw a flip phone). “Can I call you?”

“I suppose that couldn’t hurt.” Loki digs around into the pockets of his coat and comes up with a pen. He reaches for Thor’s hand and then writes a series of numbers into the soft, pink flesh (not the skin of a construction worker, that’s for sure). “You can reach me here.”

Loki’s hand is cold against Thor’s, almost unnaturally, and that now familiar shiver runs up his spine again. Thor nods as Loki pulls his hands away and pockets his pen. “Thank you for having…breakfast with me.”

“Thank you for asking.” Loki gives him a quick, almost shy smile, and then disappears out of the restaurant.

Thor is left behind, staring at the ten digit number that had been scrawled into his skin with a careful hand. The handwriting is neat, small, and Thor can’t help but wonder just how long you have to wait to dial up your brother to ask him out again.

*

Thor has one voicemail when he checks his messages.

_Odinson, your week is up._

He mashes the delete key so hard the screen of his phone cracks.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read, commented or left a kudos. I very much appreciate it! Also, this is probably going to be slow to update and I want to apologize for that. I am in an accelerated nursing program and school eats up almost all of my time. I do work on this whenever I'm not memorizing giant textbooks though. I will try my best to update as frequently as possible. :)


	4. Welcome to Your Life

*

The shitty, now cracked, phone sits in front of Thor. It’s not quite the staring contest he had with the shaving kit but it’s damn close.

There are rules about this sort of thing; a guy code he certainly didn’t make up but endorses heartily solely because he has a penis. It’s just the way the world works. Three days – that’s how long he’s supposed to wait before calling a girl, or in this case, a guy. Three days that feels more like a decade than a few days that should pass by in the blink of an eye.

The phone still works, Thor checked. It’s impromptu fight with his thumb didn’t scramble anything important, apparently. The screen has seen better days but it still dials. All he has to do is hit _send_. But it hasn’t been three days so he can’t.

It’s been a day and a half. Thirty seven hours and twenty-two minutes to be precise, but who’s counting? He could break the rule, give in to that burning feeling in his stomach and just call Loki. It’s a stupid rule anyway and does it even apply since he’s calling his own brother? There’s so much about Loki that he’s dying to know about and time is just ticking away. It’s wasting away when he could be talking to him, asking questions and getting to know his sibling.

He reaches for the phone and types in the numbers that are fading quickly on his inked palm. He’s about to hit send when there’s a knock on his door and the phone slips from his fingers and lands on the floor.

“Are you busy?” Frigga sticks her head in the door. Her hair is a mess, a tangle of curls and there are glasses perched on her head, no doubt forgotten. There is eyeliner smudged under eyes or at least Thor hopes it’s eyeliner and not more evidence that she hasn’t been sleeping.

Thor picks up the phone and locks the screen. He’d kick it under the bed with the shaving kit but that just isn’t feasible. Instead, he shoves it into his back pocket and turns toward Frigga. “No. Do you need something?”

“I need you to clean out the attic.” She scratches at her head and her fingers bump into her glasses. Pulling them off her head, she slips them over her ears and immediately she looks ten years older. They don’t hide the dark circles at all. “Please.”

The attic. Of all places, she wants him to clean out the attic – the one room in the house that belonged solely to his dad. It’s filled with records and trophies, paperwork and worthless collectibles. The attic contains everything Odin ever cared about and it’s the last place Thor wants to go. It’s probably the last place she wants to go as well. “I just, I don’t…can it wait?”

“No. Goodwill is coming by in the morning to collect what we don’t want. Just sort the items and box up whatever you think we shouldn’t keep.” She reaches out her hand, like she wants to pat him on the shoulder or offer him some kind of sympathy but it just hangs there in the open air and after a moment, she lets the hand drop.  “Thor, please.”

It’s impossible to say no and the phone call will just have to wait.

*

The attic is dark, dank, and it smells like mildew and stale air. Thor turns the light on and the first thing he sees is dust, dancing in the air and covering every available surface. This is a place that hasn’t been used in some time but it’s hard to imagine Odin up here, hunched over in the arm chair crammed into the corner, pouring over paperwork with a glass of scotch in his hand. He probably spent more time up here than anywhere else.

It was full of life once and now it’s a graveyard of memories that makes Thor’s skin crawl. No wonder his mother didn’t want to come into this shrine. Everything he considered important is up here and there isn’t one family photo, no macaroni art from when Thor was six and missing as many teeth as his age, no small, painted handprints on construction paper. There’s nothing up here to suggest Odin even had a family.

But there’s his record collection in one corner, a box of tools in the other. There are pictures of cars and friends and bottles and bottles of alcohol littered everywhere. The whole thing makes Thor want to burn the place down but he settles for opening a bottle of whiskey and taking a liberal gulp. This is not a job for the sober.

He spends hours up here – drinking and packing. Almost everything ends up in a box, scotch taped and labeled. None of this stuff was left to Thor and he can’t think of one good reason to keep any of it. It’s all junk and means less than nothing.

Thor is emptying out a chest of drawers, dumping useless papers into a pile to be shredded later on, when his fingers hit something smooth, something that doesn’t feel like a document. It’s a photo and it’s not of a car or people he vaguely remembers from the years he spent living under this roof.

No, this is undeniably a photo of Loki. He can’t be more than three or four but Thor would know that black hair anywhere. He’s sitting on some woman’s lap, his fingers tangled in her necklace. Odin is right there, his arm slung around the woman’s shoulder, grinning like a fool. This is a picture of what he gave up.

Thor stares at it for a moment and he has an urge to rip it up and throw it away. He doesn’t want Frigga to find it but there’s this large part of him that wants to keep it. So instead of getting rid of the evidence, he folds the photo up and sticks it in his wallet, right next to the Facebook photo he printed out of Sleipnir. For safe keeping.

He finishes with the attic but doesn’t find any more photos. So he sorts until there’s nothing left but dust and empty furniture. Then he shuts the door to the attic and Thor has a sneaking suspicion that he’ll never open it back up again.

*

Debbie Gibson interrupts dinner.

Frigga has made all of Thor’s favorites – roast beef, mashed potatoes, hot out of the oven biscuits. It’s a silent _thank you_ for dealing with the attic and the way to win any man’s heart, platonic or otherwise, is through his stomach. He’s in the middle of munching on a biscuit when the phone goes off and Frigga stifles a laugh behind her hand.

“Cute,” she says, taking a sip from her glass. “I raised you well.”

Thor fumbles for his phone, if only to make the song go away. He really needs to change that or put the damn thing on vibrate. “I didn’t choose the song.” He stares at the screen for a moment, the song blaring in his ears.

Frigga piles more roast beef onto his plate. There’s almost nothing on hers. In fact, Thor can’t even remember the last time he saw her eat anything and she’s getting thinner and thinner by the day. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

He shrugs. “It’s probably not important.” He hits the ignore button and shoves another biscuit into his mouth. He’s in the middle of washing it down with a glass of lemonade when Debbie Gibson starts to sing again.

“Not important, huh?” Frigga pushes the phone back into Thor’s hand. “Answer it.”

With a sigh, Thor pulls himself away from his plate of delicious foot and hits the accept button. “Hi, Jane,” he says and he really tries to not sound annoyed but the roast beef is getting cold and if there’s one thing he absolutely can’t stand, it’s being hungry.

“Thor? You didn’t answer when I called a minute ago.” Jane sounds surprised, like ignoring phone calls is something Thor never does when he does it multiple times a day. He’s almost mastered the art of not answering the phone.

“I’m having dinner with my mom. I didn’t want to be rude.” He holds the phone with his shoulder and tears into a biscuit with his fingers. Frigga is shooting daggers at him, like she doesn’t approve of his tone or attitude or something, but remains silent.

“Oh, well, I’m glad you picked up. Something happened today. Something…when are you coming home?” Her voice is a bit shaken now, like she’s used up the reserve supply of strength she’d been saving just to say _hello_.

“I don’t know. What do you mean something happened? Are you okay?” Thor scoots his chair away from the table and offers his mom a small shrug as an apology for leaving the table. He walks out to the back porch and closes the door behind him. “Please tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry, but some men came to the apartment today looking for you.” No wonder she sounds scared. Thor doesn’t even need any guesses to know who stopped by unannounced today.

Thor takes a deep breath and tries to remain calm. He knew this would happen. You can owe people like Tony Stark money forever and not expect to deal with the consequences. He just never figured Jane would play a factor into any of it. “What men? What did they want?”

“They said they were looking for you. I think one of them was named Happy. Thor, they said you owe them money. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, Jane. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

There’s some rustling in the background, the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. Jane must be in the middle of working. “I’m fine, but they did break a couple of things. We need a new television, that’s for sure. Listen, I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into but I’m coming up there. Eric already knows and the project can wait a couple of days.”

Thor rubs at his eyes with his free hand. He never meant for all of this to get so out of hand. He’s put Jane in harm’s way. “Jane, you don’t have to come up here. Everything is fine. I will handle things and they won’t be coming by the apartment again.” At least he hopes they won’t be stopping by.

“I don’t feel safe here, Thor.” Her voice is small and he feels like shit for putting her in this position, for putting her in danger. “I’m booking my flight now.”

“I’m sure you’re safe, Jane.” This is one thing Thor feels in the center of his soul. Stark isn’t a man you can reason with but he isn’t known for going around killing innocent girls. If he’s going to kill anyone, it’s going to be the one who owes the money. “Listen, why don’t you stay with Eric for a few days until this blows over?”

“No, I don’t want to get Eric involved in all of this.” There’s more tapping on keys and it sounds determined if that’s even possible. “I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Please pick me up.” The line goes dead and there’s no more room for argument.

It’s for the best. It really is. Jane will be safe here, probably. Until Stark comes banging on Frigga’s front door at least.

Thor returns to the table but for the first time in as long as he can remember, he isn’t hungry.

*

Thankfully Frigga avoids asking any questions about the phone call. She gives him a small smile and a pat on the arm when he pushes his plate away and retires for the evening. He’ll spill his beans to her eventually and he’d bet anything that’s what she’s betting on. His mother knows him far too well.

It’s sometime past eight now and Thor is too wired for sleep. He probably has to be up sometime around the crack of dawn to pick Jane up from the airport. She’s an early riser and taking the red eye from New Mexico won’t be a big deal for her. It’s a big deal for Thor though.

He loves Jane. Maybe. Probably. At least he used to. His feelings are all scrambled up inside of his chest now and his heart is bleeding all over the place. He doesn’t know up from down anymore when it comes to his relationship. It would be kinder to end it with her, just until he figures things out, but that’s not a conversation you can have with someone when they’ve flown hours by plane to be with you. Or when they’re scared of mob bosses.

The way he figures, he has a little less than twelve hours at his disposal, most of which he should spend sleeping. Thor hasn’t had one good, solid night of rest since he arrived in Chicago. He feels an ache in his bones, a weariness behind his eyes. His body is shutting down and begging for a rest but he doesn’t want to give in, not just yet.

There’s eleven hours and fifty-five minutes to waste before Jane arrives and he can certainly find a way to waste the time that doesn’t involve his child sized bed. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, runs his thumb over the crack and tries not to cringe. This phone, like the laptop, was a gift and the second Jane sees it she’s going to pout about it. That’s nothing to dwell over now though.

So even though it definitely hasn’t been three days, Thor dials the number that is barely visible on his hand anymore and listens patiently to the ringer. On the third ring it picks up.

“Who is this?” The voice is nothing like Jane’s, not sweet and angelic. It’s annoyed and on the verge of hanging up most likely.

“Loki? This is Thor…from the other night?” He lies on his bed and rubs his free hand against his thigh. His hand is sweaty and there are streaks of blue dye staining his palm from his jeans. “Are you busy?”

“I’m working. Do you want something?”

Thor swallows hard. He didn’t think this conversation would be so hard but then again he’s not exactly surprised. His meal with Loki was akin to pulling teeth without anesthetic. It’s really no wonder a phone call is the same way. “I didn’t know you were busy. I thought maybe we could get together tonight. My treat.”

Loki sighs loudly and he makes no move to cover it up. “I’m not in the mood for pancakes. Don’t you have friends?”

“No pancakes. How about Chinese?” Surely there’s a good Chinese food place somewhere in this town. That can’t be too hard to find. “Or pizza? Whatever you feel like.”

“Fine, I’m not getting much action on my shift tonight anyway. I’m over on Oak Street, come pick me up. If you aren’t here in twenty minutes, I’ll find another ride.” The line goes dead.

Thor scrambles for his jacket and practically runs down the stairs. Frigga lifts her head up from the living room and raises her eyebrow at him. “Just have some business to attend to.” He kisses her on the top of her head and then bolts out the front door.

He really shouldn’t be this excited, all things considered. This is a brother he knew nothing about before a few days ago, a brother who isn’t particularly pleasant to be around. But Thor’s heart is racing, his blood pumping faster and faster, and he can’t stop the grin that’s plastered all over his lips.

Thor jumps into the Cadillac and speeds toward downtown Chicago. He’s looking forward to an interesting eleven hours.  

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to apologize for the insanely long wait between chapters here. As I mentioned before, I'm in nursing school and it's way harder to find time to write than I thought it was going to be when I started this fic. It doesn't help that I lost interest in this fandom for a while as well. But over the weekend I watched _People Like Us_ again and that helped to get my creative juices for this story flowing again. 
> 
> Going forward, I hope to have more frequent updates. I do have a couple of weeks off between semesters coming up so hopefully that will keep me on track. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed this (or sent a kudos) and encouraged me to keep writing. I really appreciate it!


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